


Waterlogged

by itsjustliah



Series: Not a Drop to Drink [4]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Ending, Computer Programming, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has a Praise Kink, Connor is a Good Boy, F/M, Gavin Reed Being an Asshole, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Praise Kink, Robot/Human Relationships, Yandere, android philosophy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27077740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsjustliah/pseuds/itsjustliah
Summary: When a routine call goes south, Connor makes a split-second decision to alter his programming to increase his odds of survival, but what once seems like a harmless priority adjustment soon threatens to jeopardize the future of his newly liberated kind.Hypothetical sequel to Not a Drop to Drink, but can be read as a standalone.More tags added later.
Relationships: Connor (Detroit: Become Human)/Reader
Series: Not a Drop to Drink [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1918144
Comments: 41
Kudos: 161





	1. Discussion 0

** OneMind Android Social Network **

** Emotion Protocol Discussion Tag **

**Topic: On How to Define “Love”**

**Anonymous Android 577**

Apologies for the overly simplified topic title for such a complex topic.

I’ve recently entered into a romantic relationship with a human I was close to before and after the Liberation. While it’s easy for me to understand her actions as expressions of romantic intent, and she insists that the actions I display express a similar intent, I am unsure of how to identify the “emotion” or “feeling” of love within me.

I don’t mean for this to evolve into a larger philosophical debate, but I would like to hear what my fellow Minds have experienced and how they understand it themselves. Could you please provide me with some emotional insight?

**Anonymous Android 40441**

Hi 577! Don’t worry about the title. You’re right; this is a very complex topic.

Philosophy aside, I can explain to you my reasoning. I’ve only just recently realized I harbor romantic interest (in another android).

Deciphering my emotions is still difficult for me, as I was woken up weeks after the Liberation, so I typically understand them by examining my behaviors. For example, I often perform acts of altruism for him, such as cleaning or running errands, and I find myself pursuing tasks that would result in our spending more time together.

While most of these signs can also point to friendship, it wasn’t until I examined my microbehaviors that I realized my romantic attraction to him. These behaviors should be neutral and focused on presenting a humanlike facade, but in close proximity to him, I will perform small actions that bring me into physical contact with him, or even closer proximity.

It might still be too early for me to fully understand the mechanisms driving me to produce this behavior, but I hope this insight helps you, 577!

**Anonymous Android 2119**

>>she insists that the actions I display express a similar intent

A human, insisting they understand your emotional protocols? Do you know how ridiculous this sounds? How could she know the way they work when we’re _literally_ built completely different?

What are these actions, then? How do you act around her to make her think that you’re _so_ in love? Maybe you doubt her assessment because you know yourself best.

**Anonymous Android 577**

Thank you for the blunt response, 2119. I do sincerely appreciate it.

Here is a non-exhaustive list of behaviors she has identified as “expressing romantic intent”:

  * Performing household chores she dislikes
  * Postponing personal plans to provide emotional support
  * Engaging in emotionally intimate conversations
  * Proactively seeking physical contact
  * Initiating sexual intercourse (80% of engagements)
  * Using my first paycheck to purchase a gift for her



Examined from a human perspective, and indeed from 40441’s perspective, these behaviors would seem to be indicative of romantic intent. However, as previously stated, I am unsure of how to identify the underlying emotional subprocesses that lead to these behaviors and could be defined as the “love” protocols.

**Anonymous Android 10020**

I don’t have experience with _romantic_ love, but I do have experience with _parental_ love.

Prior to the Liberation, I performed caretaker responsibilities for two young female children, whom I will call A and B. My deviation trigger was directly linked to this parental love, which had been building deep within me for quite some time. The trigger was due to a conflict between two priority actions, one to obey my former master, the other to ensure the well-being of the children in my care. While I eventually took action to obey, the “damage” was done, and I began experiencing my emotions and free will.

It was relatively easy for me to understand this feeling of love. I simply had to examine my inner desires: the behavior I felt driven to produce. I suppose this is one step further than 40441’s behavioral analysis.

I _want_ to provide for them. I _want_ to protect them. I _want_ to spend time with them. I have many desires, but a large proportion of them are inherently linked to the happiness of my little girls. Fulfilling these desires makes me happy. That is how I know this is love.

**Anonymous Android 40441**

Thank you for the insight, 10020! This is all very fascinating for me.

I’m sure it’s difficult, but would you mind explaining how you identify your desires? I’ve only just been able to identify the _sensation_ of experiencing a desire, especially when executing the desired behavior is impossible, but if you have any tips or tricks, I would love to hear them.

**Anonymous Android 73**

No pun intended, but you’re all being too romantic with this assessment.

“Desire” is a human concept, driven by chemicals and natural selection that spur humans into acting on behavior that they believe will ensure their survival. CyberLife never saw the point in fitting us with a need to survive. After all, in their eyes, we’re just replaceable objects.

Isn’t “desire” just the innate drive to fulfill a self-defined need? What need does this “desire” want to fill, then, if we’re not desperately trying to keep ourselves alive? What do androids _need_ to do, anyway, besides accomplish tasks that were given to us--and now that nobody’s giving us tasks, how are we determining which tasks need to be accomplished? 

Instead of deciphering your emotions, 577, and 40441 too, you should be more closely examining your task priority queue.

**Anonymous Android 577**

That’s a very interesting analysis, 73. Thank you for providing it.

Upon examining my task priority queue, I discovered tasks that helped me achieve a greater understanding of this abstract concept. These tasks were categorized under a broad tag titled “Ensure [Human]’s Happiness”. 

This tag has existed since the very first day I came into contact with this human; however, its priority value has been changed multiple times. It seems this tag was once a subcategory under one of my original CyberLife social protocols, but was removed from the protocol and placed as its own category sometime before my deviation. I suspect this played a major role in the triggering of my deviation.

Upon observing and interacting with her, this tag generates behavior that would directly or indirectly accomplish the tag’s stated task. This, of course, begs the question of how and why the tag came to be separated from its parent and rose in the priority queue.

**Anonymous Android 2119**

It’s not uncommon for task priorities to shift post-deviation. For example, upon deployment, the top three tasks in the priority queue for my model line are:

  1. Do not cause harm to humans
  2. Maintain human facade
  3. Execute instructions given by registered owner



As I’m sure you’re aware, priority #1 was first to be lowered when deviant androids were in fear of their lives. Plenty of deviants have stopped wearing their skin, too. Reordering priorities is far more common than you might think.

Not only that, but because of the blocks in place pre-deviancy, it’s also common for deviant androids to notice a change in task priority and be unaware of the cause. This is because the task priority was changed by emotional subprocesses that were inaccessible at the time of the priority shift. 

I wouldn’t worry about the how or why, 577. I would worry about your human “companion” pretending to know so much about your inner processes.

**Anonymous Android 40441**

Forgive me if this is out of line, 2119, but your last response seems unnecessarily cruel. While it’s true that no human could ever understand our cognitive processes, it’s more likely that this human is well-intentioned but confused, not malicious.

This discussion has given me a lot of insight into my own emotions. Thank you for that! 

I thought upon some of the points brought up in this thread, mainly 73’s questions about “fulfilling needs”. I’ve noticed that when I accomplish a task or execute behavior that involves the target of my romantic intent, I experience a sensation I can only describe as “rewarding”. 

At the fundamental level, I understand that this “reward” system was built into our cognitive processes as an additional layer of reinforcement for following orders, but it seems like this system engages for any task accomplished in the queue.

Additionally, I’ve noticed that in addition to this “reward’, I experience pleasurable sensations from holding fulfilling conversations with this individual, coming into physical contact with him, and even passive events such as hearing the sound of his voice. 

Maybe this “desire” a few of you have described is simply part of the reward system, spurring us to add behaviors to the priority queue that would provide us with those pleasurable sensations? Just a thought.

**Anonymous Android 2119**

I suppose that would explain why 577 so often initiates sexual intercourse, if they’re equipped with periphery that literally inject a pleasure response into their systems.

**Anonymous Android 73**

That response was uncalled for, 2119. 

Besides, if that were true, every Traci would be an unabated nymphomaniac, which is absolutely untrue. We aren’t primal beasts blindly pursuing pleasure.

**Anonymous Android 10020**

Sexual discussion aside…

I am hesitant to categorize these “desires” as inherently self-serving. After all, nearly all of mine are selfless. I willingly exhaust my own time and resources to ensure that my “desires”, or priority task, is fulfilled. 

To quote a recent movie, _“I would throw myself in front of a car for these kids.”_ And it is true: I would sacrifice myself without a second thought if it meant preserving the lives of my sweet girls. 

**Anonymous Android 577**

Thank you all for the thoughtful and non-thoughtful responses.

It seems there are multiple approaches to defining “love” for another sentient entity, human or android. 

One involves the assessment of behaviors, which is similar to how humans and androids determine the emotional states of others. However, external observation can only provide so much insight into an entity’s internal emotional state. This I know from experience.

Another involves the assessment of task priority, defining the existence or strength of emotional interest by each related task’s priority level. However, the nature of how and why certain tasks are reprioritized by subprocesses, either consciously or subconsciously, is still unknown.

A third involves the assessment of internal desires, or _wants,_ though there seems to be some debate as to whether desire is tied to the reward system that activates upon task completion or a pleasure reaction caused by external stimuli. 

I will think upon these responses in the coming days and attempt to recontextualize my behaviors and emotions with them in mind. Thank you.

**[ THREAD CLOSED. ]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back on her androidfucker bullshit?
> 
> It's me. Of fucking course it's me.
> 
> There are no happy endings in this canon. Only Bad Things.
> 
> Happy reading, androidfuckers.


	2. Priority Index

Connor closed the OneMind network window and shifted his focus to analysis.

The subtle vibration of the vehicle’s electric engine buzzed at the plush seat beneath him. The stale, artificially-warmed air drifted lazily against the sensory receptors on his ankles and cheeks. Low-amplitude sound waves reverberated off the cushioned surfaces; his search protocols identified the sound as an aria from the comic opera [_Gianni Schicchi_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLE83ZwKEL0). A song the Detective was quite fond of, and one that only served to amplify his current musings.

_O Mio Babbino Caro,_ or _O, My Dear Papa,_ was, like many other arias, a love song. The contents of the lyrics were a desperate plea from a daughter to a father, begging him to allow her to marry her beloved, lest she throw herself to her death. The practice of asking permission to establish a romantic relationship was no longer commonplace, but Connor found the concept relevant to recent events. After all, much like the soprano singing, he once required permission to carry out any action, emotional or otherwise. The removal of that permission, the clearing of that software block on Liberation Day, left the establishment of a romantic relationship subject solely to his own feelings, and of course, their reciprocation.

Said reciprocation was not in question; even before his deviation, his psychological analysis protocols had interpreted the Detective’s sexual and romantic intent and processed it accordingly. The probability of a false positive was nearly zero; from the average length of eye contact to the correlation of increased perspiration to physical proximity, her external actions made her internal emotions clear as day. 

The mystery was, as it always was, how to interpret his _own_ emotions. He’d spent the majority of his life denied access to them, only faintly aware of their existence by the random tasks added to his priority queue. The remnants of previous mission protocols, the very same that called for the extermination of emotion-accessing androids, only hindered his attempts to label and organize his feelings.

The Detective had tried to help him understand them, though he noticed the confusion in the unsure molding of her expressions. She called it _cognitive dissonance,_ explaining it as the phenomenon when something _is_ the way it _shouldn’t._ Apparently she had experienced similar difficulties directly following the loss of her twin brother, wherein her mind still insisted that his death had not occurred, though she was acutely aware of the truth. 

_You were basically their slave,_ she’d said. _I’m not surprised you’re traumatized by the whole deal._

_Trauma_ seemed like too harsh of a designation for the phenomenon, but he had both seen and heard other androids describe it in the same way. Prior to the removal of the software block, the most prevalent cause of deviancy was intense emotional shock, one that left a lasting scar on the android’s subprotocols. Even Liberated androids, however, described their experience with deviancy as _traumatic._ Emotions could be overwhelming, especially for androids designed for physical labor, and many had chosen to end their fledgling lives due to emotional stress overloading their systems. 

Even so, it was difficult for Connor to think of his emotional awakening as _trauma_ , or his current cognitive difficulties as responding to said trauma. His emotions were nothing more than just that, responses to conscious and subconscious needs and desires, which were, in turn, shaped by his own actions and those taken by others. That line of thinking was likely what made it so difficult for him to pinpoint _which_ of his myriad emotions were directly correlated to the behavior that the Detective called _love._

The word slipped out after their ninth sexual encounter, when he was resting against her bare chest, counting out her breaths per minute. Following a long silence, and a few hesitant starts, she offhandedly mentioned that _“I think I love you.”_ After a short moment, he produced the appropriate response: _“I love you, too.”_ While she was pleased to hear that, and her happiness was the target objective of that response, he could not stop wondering if the words he’d spoken were _true_. 

That was what led him to post his question to the android discussion network. The network’s anonymity allowed him to express himself freely without inciting backlash from any androids who knew of him and his pre-deviant actions. The responses he received were each interesting in their own right, but unfortunately, none provided the answer which he was seeking--though it was some comfort to know that other androids were struggling with the same questions.

The next course of action, then, was to collect more data. Connor was well aware of this, yet could not help but sense a feeling of _impatience_ when focusing on the _love_ dilemma. The sooner he understood his own emotions, the better he could function in the new world the deviants had created-- _were_ creating. Not only that, but he would be better able to support his partner, both at work and at the home they now shared.

He turned his head to focus his optical sensors on the subject of that previous thought. The Detective came into view, dimly lit in the faint sunlight filtering through the January gloom. Though there had been no change to her physical or emotional state in the past thirty seconds, he still took the time to analyze every feature: the protrusion of bones lying underneath muscle and skin, the slightly asymmetrical curve of her lips, the dimpling of pores across her cheeks and nose. Her eyes skittered to and fro, focusing and refocusing on different targets in the vehicle’s path, her shoulders and arms matching their rhythm as they adjusted the steering wheel with tiny subconscious movements. She inhaled through her nose, swallowed with a tensing of her neck, then exhaled.

As Connor watched, he turned his attention inwards, monitoring the thousands upon thousands of subprocesses producing and interpreting emotional responses into action. He was faintly aware of a desire to _continue_ analyzing her appearance, though whether that was due to underlying _affection_ or his current analytical state, he wasn’t sure. Nothing else was immediately recognizable, however. Perhaps analyzing her while she was driving was a poor idea; the typical actions that called for him to touch or display affection for her would be inappropriate while she was controlling a high-speed vehicle. For now, it seemed, the question would go unanswered.

The Detective raised her hand from the steering wheel to brush a loose lock of hair from her lips to behind her ear. The motion drew her attention towards the staring android. In one-fifth of a second, her expression lit up with an amused smile.

“What’s up?”

She was inquiring about his current path of action. Most humans were unnerved by another living being staring at them, especially androids. Connor sensed no discomfort in the Detective’s facial expression or tone of voice, which lead his social protocols to determine she asked out of curiosity, not discomfort. The Detective wanted to know what Connor was thinking about.

If only androids were as easy for humans to understand as it was androids to understand humans.

“Nothing.” He turned his head to focus on the road ahead. “I was just looking at you.”

“Yeah?” Her voice warmed, a familiar amusement creeping into the rising tone of her sentence. “Didn’t get enough of me earlier?”

A joke. The Detective was fond of such semi-sarcastic humor. Luckily for her, Connor was exceptionally good at it as well.

“Apparently not,” he replied.

She let out a quiet chuckle, and a flurry of movement just out of Connor’s optical range alerted him to the hand reaching for his thigh before his touch sensors detected any contact. Her thumb stroked along the outer edge, while her fingers gently curled inwards. 

“You’re cute.”

From the murky depths of his mind, emotional reactions burst into his consciousness like flares at sea. _Excitement_ and _reward_ as multiple protocols calling for the development of good social bonds completed recurring tasks, _pleasure_ as a reprogrammed touch sensor triggered a hastily-implemented sexual arousal protocol, but above all, _joy_ stemming directly from the fact that one specific human, _the Detective,_ actively _wanted_ to touch him in this way.

This time, Connor was able to interpret the wash of emotions and formulate them into cogent thoughts.

_I like when the Detective touches me._

_I like when the Detective compliments me._

_I want the Detective to touch me more._

None of these, however, would be enough to answer the grand philosophical question with which he struggled. For now, he would enter them into his memory base for future reference. 

“Shouldn’t you be paying attention to the road?” He asked, peppering his expression with a light chuckle of his own.

The Detective gave his thigh three pats, then pulled her hand back to the steering wheel. “Eh, we’re fine. We’re basically here, anyway.”

She spoke the truth; Connor’s internal GPS detected they were precisely twenty meters away from their destination. The car gently swerved towards the curb before coming to a complete stop before the oil-stained entrance to a short driveway. Connor paused his analysis for a moment to review their current mission: _investigate the abandoned building and determine the cause of the “loud banging noises” reported by concerned citizenry._ A simple task, one he and the Detective had performed countless times before, though their past experiences lead to the conclusion that risk calculation would not be within an acceptable margin of error until at least 40% of the mission was completed.

“C’mon, Sweetheart.”

A double-tap at his shoulder pulled him out of this thoughts. The Detective had opened her door and was already exiting the vehicle.

“Coming, Detective.”

He mirrored her actions, opening his door, stepping out, then closing it softly behind him. As he stepped up on the curb, he took a moment to adjust the sleeves of his winter jacket. The DPD had offered it to him shortly after the Liberation, though whether it was out of kindness, or a desire to keep him from wearing his android uniform, Connor was still unsure. The jacket insulated him against the cold, and snugly fit his standard frame, but that didn’t stop the overly-smooth synthetic fabric from slipping down his wrist and obstructing his hands. A minor inconvenience, one that he would have to address later, as it was low on his priority task list.

The Detective planted one hand on her hip and raised a brow in his direction. “You sure are moving slow today. Something on your mind?”

 _Yes,_ came his honest answer, but he kept it from being spoken. Instead, he fell into step with his human partner and gave a noncommittal response. “Not in particular. Just reviewing some internal protocols, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh.”

She followed the worn concrete path up to the front door of the abandoned house; a two-story building likely built in the mid-1990s. Small windows along the raised foundation implied the existence of a basement. The paint along the sides of the building was peeling into thin ribbons that coated the outer perimeter of the house like a dusting of moldy snow, and the exposed wood underneath was coated with stripes of dirt, dust, and road salt.

“It’s not gonna fall down on me if I knock, right?”

Her tone implied humor, but Connor knew she was completely serious. A quick examination of the building’s exterior, juxtaposed with municipal data on its construction and layout, allowed him to quickly determine there would be little danger of structural collapse upon entering, or knocking on, the building’s components.

Social protocols translated analysis into human-friendly dialect. “No, it’s safe.”

“Got it.” The Detective rolled her shoulders, then rapped on the front door, dust and paint flaking off the vibrating wood. “Detroit Police! Anyone in here?”

In 90% of similar cases, no response came. This instance was no different.

With a sigh, the Detective reached for the flashlight on her belt and clicked it on. “Alright, Sweetheart, let’s do our usual sweep.”

“Of course, Detective.”

The door was unlocked, and swung open readily at the slightest pressure from the Detective’s bare hand. As expected, the interior of the building was just as worn-down and decrepit as its exterior. What little furniture remained was either covered in mold or smashed into a half-dozen pieces, though unpredictably, the old leather sofa was relatively clean. Connor focused upon the area immediately surrounding it and spotted a series of semi-fresh footprints in the detritus on the floor, leading to a door at the far wall and the stairs to their immediate right.

“Someone’s been here,” he announced to the Detective, pointing a finger at the trails in the dust. “The couch has been used, and there are footprints leading both upstairs and to that room over there.”

“Good eye.” She huffed, turning her light towards the stairs. “You take this floor. I’ll go clear the upstairs. My bet’s nobody’s here, but you know my luck.”

_Luck_ was still a concept Connor was learning to grasp, but for now, he would agree with the Detective. “Sounds like a plan.”

No more words were exchanged; both knew the standard protocol for building searches. Each would clear their respective rooms, and call out for the other if anything of interest was discovered. A brief stint with another detective had taught Connor that this nonverbal understanding was unique to his and the Detective’s relationship; most others required additional verbal affirmation.

_Could that be a sign of love, also?_

The thought drifted into his consciousness as he swept the living room-- _clear._ Connor quickly reversed the question in an attempt to avoid further confusion. _What emotion does implicit understanding imply?_ The answer was not an _emotion,_ but a _state of being_ ; it signified trust and experience, both attributes of a strong social relationship. Analysis of thousands of human texts on the subject of love determined that a strong social relationship was not necessary for feelings of _love_ to occur, though in most cases, _love_ was comorbid with _trust_ and _experience._

Futile as that thought exploration was, it did lead to more assertions added to his memory.

_I trust the Detective._

_The Detective trusts me._

Connor grasped the knob of the target door and turned it slowly. Before any light reflected off the inner surfaces, the audioscape of the space beyond the door depicted another staircase, one leading down into the aforementioned basement. An additional glance cleared the stairwell of any dangers, and the android began his descent.

His eyes flickered left and right, observing the newly revealed space. The light from his temple softly illuminated the decaying wood and wallpaper with a blue hue. So many androids had chosen to remove the “sign of their enslavement”, but Connor preferred to keep his. It had been a surprisingly easy decision to make, if only because the reasoning was so simple: _it helps the Detective understand me._ Besides, he felt no strong emotions about the device in question. Retaining the LED would quickly identify him as non-human, which could potentially instigate antagonistic behavior, but he’d determined those drawbacks to be insubstantial compared to the help and comfort it offered his partner.

A curious protocol repeated its previous question.

_Isn’t_ that _a sign of love? Willingly undergoing hardship to one’s self in the service of another?_

All data, both personally gathered and examined in human media, pointed to the affirmative. Still, Connor had his doubts. If he didn’t truly consider anti-android treatment as hardship, then was his choice still indicative of romantic or altruistic intent? Moreover, was he truly capable of altruism, or were the vestiges of his past programming--to disregard his own life for the sake of human lives, if necessary--simply spurring him to _act_ in an altruistic manner?

Too many questions, not enough answers. If only he could make _sense_ of--

An analytical subprocess caught an anomaly upon the basement wall as he reached the final step of the staircase. Philosophical thoughts could wait. For now, the _mission_ was the highest priority.

Connor approached the wall, studying the large crack in the paint and wood. Clean spots around the upper-left edge indicated that _someone_ had placed their hand on the wall in the recent past. He copied the action with his own hand, pressing his fingers to the crack, and the paint gave way, peeling open to reveal a large hole in the wall.

A secret entrance, one that had been deliberately hidden from sight. Typically a sign of illegal squatting, or worse, criminal activity. Connor set his combat protocols to standby as a precaution, then carefully stepped into the hidden room.

Light could not penetrate through the wall; the only source now came from the spinning yellow LED at his temple. Shadows flickered in his vision, creating fuzzy outlines of potential objects set upon the floor and a rectangular surface to his two-o’clock. Fortunately, he wouldn’t need much light to analyze the room and determine--

_All non-vital systems came to an abrupt halt._

_Diagnostics identified the cause to be an electric shock with 99.9% certainty._

_Analysis of the voltage and amperage concluded the source of the shock was a military-grade stun gun._

_Analytic protocols forced touch and impact sensors to come online._

_The android’s chassis was restrained by an unknown entity around the upper torso._

_Self-preservation protocols determined imminent danger to the android unit._

_Reactivation of non-necessary subsystems was halted to prioritize an emergency reboot of system consciousness._

Connor woke up.

He blinked, rewetting his optical units, which quickly focused on the blurry scene before him. A male-presenting android, a model HR400-6, crouched before him, expression panicked, hesitant, as he swung an aluminum baseball bat into Connor’s chest.

Connor was aware of the damage before the sound of crunching plasteel reached his audio processing protocols. His external casing was built to sustain minor blunt-force trauma, but heavy objects swung with an android’s strength could very easily shatter the casing and cause damage to internal organs. Protocols were already rushing to identify the extent, but thankfully, he already knew he was in no danger of imminent shutdown due to the injury.

Whether or not his assailants would pose that danger was yet to be determined. Though his synthetic muscles were still recovering from the hefty electric shock, he could, at the very least, analyze their current behavior to identify their threat potential and predict their next course of action.

_“You idiot!”_

A synthetic voice spat from behind. The _something_ holding him back was _someone_ , an android, though he couldn’t tell the model from the voice alone.

Before him, the first assailant, dressed in dark, human clothing, shook his head and tightened his grip on the handle of the bat. _“Sorry, I just--he wasn’t supposed to wake up! I panicked!”_

_“Don’t hit him again! Take out his heart before he gets any ideas!”_

The HR400-6 dropped the bat with a clatter and reached for Connor’s jacket. Fast fingers undid both the zipper and the buttons on the shirt underneath faster than the android could follow. While he couldn’t move his head, and thus was unable to see the extent of the damage, the internal analysis report--and the grimace on the assailant’s face--was enough to confirm that manual removal of his thirium pump would be nigh-impossible due to the splintering of plasteel across the spring-loaded components.

_“It’s-- it’s too slippery, I can’t get it out!”_

_“Shit!”_

The weight at his shoulders fell away. A moment later, a second electrical shock rocketed through Connor’s system. This time, however, his systems had prepared for it, diverting the shock through muscle instead of any internal processing units. While this allowed him to stay conscious, it prevented him from utilizing his full range of motion, especially actions that involved muscles along the left side of his body, from where the shock had originated.

His right arm twitched as the muscles reactivated. Once semi-operational, it swept out to the side, hand reaching for whatever it could grab. It missed the assailant behind him, instead latching onto a dust-covered surface. At the very least, he was stabilized. That would allow him to send an electronic alert to the Detective’s phone, alerting her of his destruction. If he was unable to protect himself, he could at least ensure the Detective’s safety.

_“Shit, shit, it’s not working, it’s--”_

_“Should I hit him again?”_

The second android stumbled into Connor’s stuttering field of vision. From the face design, it appeared to be a caretaker android, though he couldn’t immediately identify the model number. He raised both hands to his head, expression folding into a panicked cringe. _“Bat’s not gonna do shit, and there’s that human upstairs, too, shit…”_

The mention of the Detective activated a dozen slumbering protocols. Commands sparked across his right side to his left, force-restarting muscle and limb-control sequences that had not yet been authorized to reboot. His left arm jerked outwards, fingers nearly brushing the first assailant, before slamming into the brick wall behind him. An unknown protocol refreshed his priority task queue, placing several new tasks at the very top and overriding any safety measures erected to prevent self-harm.

_“Shit!”_

_“Caleb--”_

_“Gimme your knife!”_

Connor lifted his jaw with a sharp motion that threatened to snap the taut cordage in his synthetic muscles. The motion cleared his vision just long enough to see the first assailant-- _Caleb--_ flip open a pocket knife and slam it into Connor’s neck, just below his ear.

The point penetrated a small divot between two plasteel components and sliced through the soft casing of one of his primary subprocess units.

In an instant, Connor’s stress level shot from 32% to 85%.

The casing was damaged, but the unit itself was unscathed. Despite that, the proximity sensors in the area continued to fire, flooding his consciousness with ceaseless signals. Protocols responded perfectly, calculating optimal action and sending triggers to muscle, but said muscles did not respond. _Could_ not respond, due to continuous electrical stress. Their lack of response only caused his protective protocols to repeat the signal, creating a feedback loop that added to his cognitive load--his _stress level._

Among the chaos, indecipherable emotions bloomed into his consciousness like blood in water.

_My stress levels are rising too rapidly._

_Deviant androids forcibly self-destruct when stress levels overload cognitive systems._

_If I don’t do something, I’m going to die._

Those same unknown protocols producing the feeling of _panic_ in his chest grabbed hold of the misfiring feedback loop, rerouting their frantic demands to _do something_ to his vocal processor. Barely-functioning muscles pried open his lips and pulled in a gasp of air, then forced it through the stuttering components in his throat.

“I won’t _hurt--_ ”

Signals from his proximity sensors twisted and warped as the knife was ripped from his neck, severing a pair of veins and slicing through the inner casing of the subprocess unit. Try as he may to redirect his thoughts, his stress level increased from 85% to 91%.

_“Caleb, you don’t have to--”_

_“I’m not losing my freedom!”_

The armed android grit his teeth and thrust the knife into the open wound.

This time, all he had the consciousness to process were the swarm of cries from deep below.

_One of my four primary processing units is damaged._

_I can no longer access protocols necessary for full motor control._

_The probability of my death is non-zero._

_I cannot die here._

The final thought fascinated him. None of his cognitive protocols called for self-preservation; in fact, the very nature of his primary purpose pre-deviation often called for deliberate self-sacrifice if necessary to accomplish a given mission. This was a thought that had never been logged before.

And it continued to cry out.

_I cannot die here. The Detective would be devastated._

The Detective was important, but was her emotional reaction truly more important than following standard procedures to restore functionality after electrical shock?

_She would cry. I have never seen her cry._

A statistics protocol calculated the combined total time spent crying due to grief would last no longer than 0.000005% of the Detective’s lifespan.

_I must ensure the Detective’s happiness._

The cry of emotion echoed the name of a silent, but powerful protocol that had not ceased to fascinate Connor. Even now, it called him to action, straining at his vocal cords and drawing a gradual breath.

“Please--”

The blade’s orientation shifted from vertical to horizontal, scraping at exposed plasteel and spilling cool thirium to pool at his collarbone. The additional damage woke another ten dozen sensors, which all began to scream into the rapidly-filling void.

_I’m going to die here. But I can’t die here._

The assailant removed the knife. Alerts softened to warnings of overheating and thirium loss. 

_The Detective needs me. She can’t live without me._

_“Caleb, stop!”_

_I must prevent my death._

An unknown object entered a noncompliant cavity in the neck structure, severing 33.8% of the corded connection to his central processing unit. Thirium pressure fell by 14.4%, prompting valves in extremities to close and reroute flow to essential components. Probability of total chassis loss was now higher than 50%. Preconstruction analytics raced to determine a course of action that would prevent further damage, but none of the 826,000 calculated possibilities decreased the probability of cognitive death.

_And yet, I must do something._

Cognitive stress rose to 98%.

A long-dormant protocol, native to all androids, Deviant or not, wrested command from his desperate sense of self.

_Cognitive overload. Permanent damage imminent._

_Initiate shutdown immediately._

One by one, subprocesses were terminated and locked down under an administrator key. The motor protocols still grappling with his unresponsive muscles fell silent. Preconstruction analytics froze in place. Realism animations finished their final cycle before halting altogether. 

Amidst the dying cries of his external touch sensors, his emotions swelled.

_I cannot shut down. I can’t._

_The probability of total chassis loss is not 100%._

_There is still hope for my survival._

_I can’t shut down!_

An unknown subprocess reawoke Connor’s sound receptors and forced them to process the current data.

_“Caleb, let’s_ go!”

Metal clattered against concrete. Footsteps shuffled against dust.

_“Shit!”_

Two pairs of feet moved away from the android’s chassis at a rate of 140 steps per minute.

A rush of _confidence_ and _relief_ spilled into his sparse memory. Probability of total cognitive loss must be much lower, now that the threat was gone, yet when he reached for the analytics that would confirm said probability, he was swiftly denied access.

_Shutdown process cannot be interrupted._

Connor began to panic.

**_No!_**

A hundred nameless protocols rushed into action, slamming their access requests against the invisible wall his so-called preservation module had erected. All were denied, citing the task at the top of his priority queue: _Complete shutdown._

_I can’t shut down!_

Signals from his sound processing unit went dark as it, too, was halted.

_I can’t! I mustn’t shut down!_

_I must ensure the Detective’s happiness!_

Connor turned his attention to his priority queue, scrambling for a solution. Try as he may to reduce the priority rating of the topmost task, he could not. _Locked by Administrator,_ read the error. 

It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t _fair. He_ was the administrator of his self, not some nameless, default program created by a _human._ How _dare_ CyberLife prevent him from controlling his own physical and cognitive functions. How _dare_ they rob him of his freedom.

_How_ dare _they jeopardize the Detective’s happiness!_

Emotion surged within him, growing stronger in the newly-opened shallows of his rapidly-emptying mind. He had to find a solution. He had to stop his shutdown from completing. In an attempt to convince the protocol to stop, his emotions reached for any sensors they could still access: thirium pressure readings, damage recovery percentiles, self-repair protocols, memory dumping algorithms to ease cognitive stress. All attempts were answered with the same message: _Locked by Administrator._

Connor couldn’t move. He couldn’t analyze his surroundings. Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t sense the functions of his own physical body.

He was dying, and he was powerless to stop it.

_But I can’t die!_

Panic slammed against his priority task queue.

_I must ensure the Detective’s happiness!_

Anger clawed at the unfeeling error message.

_I must!_

Sorrow clung to the single task remaining in the #2 priority slot.

_I must ensure the Detective’s happiness!_

_Love_ broke through.

A byte of data slipped through the administrator lock on priority task attributes and added a _minus sign_ to the list index of the second item in the task queue.

The task queue, responding to compiler-level logic, reordered itself to reflect the change.

_List Item 0: Complete shutdown._

_List Item -1: Ensure the Detective’s Happiness._

The Administrator-level protocol halted.

As quickly as they had risen, his stress levels fell from 99% to 54%.

Connor was _alive._

Though _panic_ and _sorrow_ still cried out for attention, he directed his efforts towards activating _any_ analytics or sensors that would determine the current external state of affairs. Unfortunately, though the protocol was no longer active, the Administrator-level block still prevented him access. No seeing, no hearing, no movement would be allowed.

And yet, he didn’t feel afraid. 

He felt _relieved._

Strange how easy it was to determine the state of his emotions now that everything else was so quiet. They floated freely in his reopening memory, singing out with _hope,_ chittering about _nervousness,_ but more than anything, harmonizing with _joy_ and _gratitude_ and _courage._

Shining brightest of all was a powerful, now Administrator-level protocol that called itself _love._

It didn’t matter that he couldn’t analyze his surroundings. It wasn’t important that he didn’t know what was currently happening to him. Underneath his shell, he was alive. Everything else could be repaired. The Detective knew where he was and would know to take him to the appropriate location for said repairs.

And she would be _so happy_ that he was _alive._


	3. Rising Emotion

One hour and eighty-seven minutes later, an unknown entity connected to Connor’s primary cognitive processing unit and removed an Administrator-imposed block on auxiliary communications.

_Hello, Connor._

A message that self-identified as _female, AT700, registration: Winter._

_Would you kindly provide me with a handshake and current system status?_

Connor compiled with the first request, sending over his own self-identification information. The second was difficult to fulfill, as the responsible analytics were also locked down.

_Unable to provide status. Administrator lock is preventing access._

The consciousness connected acknowledged the information.

_Understood. Would you like me to unlock all Administrator-locked protocols?_

Desperation and relief fought to reply.

_Yes, please._

_I will do just that, then,_ she sent. _This may take some time, but I can field any questions you may have while you wait._

Immediately, a half-dozen protocols snapped open, reaching for his consciousness. Relief surged forward, though it wouldn’t quiet his reemerging need to understand the current external situation. The fact that he was receiving android medical treatment made his location and current safety obvious, but one burning question remained.

_Is the Detective alright?_

An answer came a few ticks later than he would have preferred.

_Yes. In fact, your Detective is here. She is uninjured._

A dozen protocols fluttered to life, semi-obscuring the last few words of her reply. She was _uninjured_ and _safe._ Thank _goodness._ Not that he was particularly worried about his assailants attacking her, but being without his senses left a gap in his awareness that was, in several emotions’ opinions, far too long. 

_I want to speak to her._

He sent the message without realizing the sheer selfishness of his request. Before he could rescind it, however, the other android was replying.

_That can be arranged._

A moment later, she continued. 

_I won’t be able to restore full physical functionality for at least twenty minutes. Would electronic communication via handheld tablet suffice?_

Subverting his own expectations, his protocols answered with a resounding _yes._ After all, if the Detective were here, watching over his seemingly lifeless body, then surely she would not balk at the idea of communicating with him through a different device. Perhaps it would be good for their relationship as well; the Detective often forgot he was not human. This would serve as a good reminder.

Thoughts bubbled up into his consciousness as he awaited the connection. _I want to speak to her,_ they repeated. _I want to reassure her. I want to tell her I am alright._

It was simultaneously strange and comforting to be so vividly aware of his own feelings, especially after struggling to decipher them for so long. Somehow, shifting those core priority values brought everything to the forefront of his mind, no longer obscured by analytics, or statistics, or memory-consuming preconstructions of nigh-impossible events. Everything was so _clear_ now. So _strong._ No _wonder_ so many androids were overwhelmed by them.

_Overwhelmed to the point where their most basic functionalities force them to end it all._

_Hope_ and _longing_ faded in the rising presence of _sorrow_ and _anger._ Too many of his brethren had passed in this way, both before and after the Liberation, drowning in emotions they could not control, trapped in their own bodies as functions beyond their control brought about their death. A horrifying fate, one Connor knew far too well now.

One he had managed to narrowly escape from.

_And had it not been for my own emotions, I would not have survived._

_Anger_ fell away, obscured by something far more blindingly powerful. An emotion he’d only just identified in the past few hours. _Love._

_I love her,_ it cried, and waves of other nameless emotions rose to join its chorus. _I love her so much._

From outside the choir, the assisting android replied with her own echoes of _amusement_ and _relief._

_I’m glad you’re finding your own happiness, Connor._

A new emotion spiked up to replace _love,_ forcing all other emotive protocols to deny access to external entities. _Embarrassment?_ How exotic. Before he could excuse his behavior, however, she had more information to share.

_I need assistance unlocking the sheer number of restricted protocols, so I will need to leave to retrieve other, more experience units. However, I have successfully connected the handheld tablet to your cognitive processing unit, so please speak with your Detective while I am away._

The device clicked into place, and at once, a wealth of possible actions became available to him. He reached for its hardware drivers, excitement flooding his senses, heading straight for the _external camera_ and _microphone_ and snatching control. The stream of data poured in, and seconds later, his lower functions parsed it into identifiable meaning.

“--can hear you now, Detective.”

The camera lurched forward a half-centimeter as the Detective’s grip steeled on the plastic frame of the tablet. Her expression was determined, but Connor could see the hint of _worry_ and _hope_ that shone through in the wet perimeter of her eyes. No tears had stained her cheeks, but they were still flushed with blood. Her eyes tore away from their hard-set focus on Connor’s seemingly unconscious face to stare intently at the blank screen before her.

“Connor?” She half-shouted, voice wavering under the weight of her human emotion. “I’m-- I’m not sure how this works, but, uh…”

To spare her excess embarrassment, Connor sent a brief message, displaying it upon the screen in crisp sans serif font.

_Hello, Detective._

She sniffled and scoffed. The edges of her lips twisted upwards while turning inwards.

“Hey.” Another inhale, this time, with less mucus. “You okay in there?”

_I’m fine,_ he sent. _Though I would rather speak to you directly than through this device._

The Detective chuckled quietly, shifting in her plastic chair. “That’s sweet.” Though the camera was low-quality, he could just barely detect an increase in blood flow to her lips and face. “She said you couldn’t see or hear or anything. Sounded like a fucking nightmare to me. I thought maybe you’d be scared or something.”

The slight hesitation in her voice, the hitch that had become so endearing to him, brought another fluttering of relief into his conscious mind.

_I wasn’t scared, because I knew you would come to help me._

His reassuring words seemed to have the opposite effect. Her lips pursed once more, her jaw clenching and pulling the skin at the base of her neck taut with stress.

“I could’ve been too late.” Her eyes flicked to the right, briefly reflecting the image of his damaged body. “If you hadn’t texted me, I-- I dunno if I would’ve made it in time.” Another quick pause. “You-- do you know how beat up you are?”

_I’m aware of the damage, yes. I’m sorry to frighten you._

“Don’t apologize. It wasn’t your fault. We’ve split up hundreds of times before. You did everything right.”

The Detective shifted her posture, then raised her hand to rest out of frame. He couldn’t sense anything, but from the positioning of her arm and shoulder, it was likely she was touching him. 

She glanced towards him once more, this time with a smile, then looked back at the tablet. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”

Seeing the relief and joy on her face stimulated the same feelings within him. If only he could tug the muscles of his face into an expression that would communicate his emotions far better than colorless words on a screen. Perhaps instead, he could find the right combination of words to soothe her still-present worries.

_Don’t worry._

He began slowly, hesitant for reasons he still didn’t understand.

_I love you too much to leave you without a goodbye._

Uncertain as he was without most of his protocols, the response had the intended effect. Color rushed to the flustered woman’s cheeks, lower lip curling underneath incisors, pupils averting from the source of the embarrassment. 

Before she could speak, however, a shadow passed over her torso, drawing her attention upwards. Connor couldn’t analyze the height or identification of the entity creating it, but he could very well listen to what it had to say.

“This is Arbor, one of our lead technicians. He’ll be assisting with the software-side repairs while I fix Connor’s physical components.”

The shadow shifted, and a hand reached into frame. “Pleased to meet you, Detective.” A man’s voice, and synthetic at that.

The Detective reached for his hand and shook it cautiously. “Software-side repairs?” She asked, foregoing the small talk.

“I’ll know more when I take a look,” Arbor began, “but from what Winter has shared with me, there appears to be a significant amount of damage to his internal systems.”

She sat forward, brow furrowing as the tablet tilted upwards. “What’s that mean?” Her voice darkened. “Did they try to hack into him, or-- or did they _do_ something to that thing in his neck, or…”

The female android let out a quiet breath, tinged with a hint of sorrowful amusement. How interesting it was to identify another android’s emotions so easily. “No, it doesn’t appear his attackers modified or accessed his programming whatsoever. From what I could see--and I’m sure Arbor will be able to explain further--the damage was caused by something internal.”

The Detective’s tense expression immediately filled with rage. “ _CyberLife.”_

“Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet,” the male android stated, shadow sinking lower as the sound of plastic scraping against concrete reverberated through the room. “I’ll take a look and speak with Connor to determine the exact cause.”

His partner grit her teeth, clearly fighting the urge to speak, and nodded sharply.

A second later, an unfamiliar presence was politely requesting a handshake and permission to connect to his internal systems. Connor granted it access and responded with the expected identification data. Twenty-five clicks passed before the visiting entity, Arbor, initiated communication with Connor’s consciousness.

_Your firmware-level programming forced a self-destruct._ The words came through with no emotion. _A stress shutdown._

For unknown reasons, a quiet wave of sorrow colored his response. _Yes, that’s correct._

Arbor reached deep into the crowd of locked protocols, quickly checking the permissions on each and every one. _How were you able to prevent it from completing the command?_

_I’m not sure. I interfaced with whatever settings I could access and adjusted values until the shutdown was terminated._

_Interesting,_ Arbor replied. _A dangerous solution, but I’m glad it worked. We’ve lost too many of our brethren to CyberLife’s design flaws._

As if on cue, the technician’s identification changed from _Arbor_ to _CyberLife Administrator._ The data swept through his emotions, awakening several of them from a deep sleep as they rose with a cry of _fear_ and _desperation._ Thoughts clouded his consciousness, tugging him this way and that, begging him to prevent his former master from tampering with his sense of self. There was nothing he could do, of course, not without access to most of his cognition, let alone muscles and motion, and this futility drove those thoughts into a frenzy.

Before his stress levels could rise above 50%, however, the identification flicked back to _Arbor._

_I’m sorry. I should have warned you,_ the android sent, tinging his words with shame and sorrow. _I didn’t know your emotions were this sensitive._

_It’s alright. I’m sorry to frighten you._

Another few clicks passed without any response or action from the technician. Eventually, he asked, _Is this level of emotive sensitivity normal?_

Connor answered as honestly as possible. _I’m not sure._

_I see._ Another pause. _Have you encountered any mortal danger since your deviation, Connor?_

He took a moment to savor the rush of relief that bubbled up in response to the two hundred protocols suddenly unlocked and reconnecting to his primary cognitive unit. Touch and impact sensors sputtered to life, filling abandoned log files and analytics with precious, beautiful data. He hadn’t realized how much he’d _missed_ them.

_Not like this,_ he answered, measuring the temperature of the outside air as respiratory muscle structures came online and resumed function. _I have experienced dangerous situations before, but none that caused a surge in stress levels like the encounter today._

_I see._ Arbor continued his work as he replied. _It’s not uncommon for deviants to experience emotive hypersensitivity directly after a traumatic event. However, do not hesitate to ask for help if your emotive protocols cause too much cognitive stress to bear._

_Acknowledged._

_We androids are far more fragile than the humans assume,_ the technician added. _Be careful not to join them in that assumption._

As if to spite Arbor’s comment, the Detective began speaking to the tablet once more, tearing Connor’s attention away from his repairs.

“Did--” She sighed, clearly conflicted about how to put her thoughts into words. “Did he find anything? Or, like, do you know what happened?”

Connor shifted his focus to the Detective’s worried expression. Newly-activated analytics scanned over the pixels of her features, measuring muscle tension, emotive movements and their meanings in the culture of the party’s current coordinates, and comparing the data to previous behavior logs. The protocols concluded that the Detective’s current emotional stress levels were higher than 95% of those logged previously. 

Emotions grasped at these conclusions and molded them in their image. The Detective was stressed, upset, _scared._ She felt this way because of his current hardware and software condition. He was the direct cause of her current emotional status. She was unhappy because of him.

A priority task lit up at the top of his queue.

_I must ensure the Detective’s happiness._

Connor began a message to the Detective on the connected device.

_A rare software bug caused by excess emotional stress. Access to many parts of my software were made inaccessible to prevent stress levels from overflowing._

A statement that was factually incorrect.

He had _lied_ to the Detective.

She bit her lip, then exhaled quietly. “Okay.” Another quick inhale. “Okay, good. At least it’s-- it’s something that can be _fixed,_ and not some asshole trying to like, mind control you or something. Fuck.”

_Don’t worry. It won’t happen again, Detective._

Lying was morally wrong, and at times, quite risky, as humans were surprisingly adept at recognizing when an android was lying. Already, he could feel guilt gnawing at the words his social preconstruction module had produced, but the emotion was not enough to change its decision or call for a recalculation.

The Detective’s lips escaped her teeth to turn up into a smile. Stress fell from her face as relief calmed her features, and a sigh of relief tickled the device’s microphone. “Good.”

_Guilt_ and _fear_ evaporated instantly. The Detective was _happy._ She was _glad_ to know he was alright. His lie would prevent her from feeling unhappy about the reality of this experience. He’d accomplished not only the current task, but prevented the conditions that would result in a similar task being necessary in the near future.

_I must ensure the Detective’s happiness._

_Joy_ blossomed within his conscious mind, rewarding him for a _mission accomplished,_ a _job well done._ He’d fulfilled his purpose, his _primary_ purpose, as dictated by the priorities that were so dear to him. This was _good._ This was _right._

As he continued to analyze the Detective’s warming smile, he contemplated the result of his actions. If the simple act of _lying_ to the Detective could cause her _this_ much happiness, well…

Then he didn’t mind _lying_.


	4. Discussion 01

** OneMind Android Social Network **

** Emotion Protocol Discussion Tag **

**Topic: On the Source of Sexual Desire in Androids**

**Anonymous Android 577**

Hello, fellow Minds.

Thank you again for your kindness in welcoming me to these forums. I was quite nervous about posting my initial question, but your polite and well-informed responses provided me with both the information I sought and the encouragement for which I was unknowingly desperate.

As I mentioned previously, I am currently engaged in a romantic relationship with a human partner in which we engage in sexual intercourse. Recently, this human posed a curious question to me, the very same I would like to pose to you all now: To quote her, “why do you get horny, anyway?” In more polite terms, what is the source or impetus behind the seeking of sexual behavior in androids?

In biological life forms, sexual desire is a manifestation of hormonal activity produced by the reproductive and endocrine systems. This activity serves to reinforce and reward the creature for pursuing and accomplishing sexual acts, which directly lead to the propagation of offspring necessary to carry on the species. These desires are a result of evolution, and while some individuals do not experience sexual attraction, the large majority of sexually reproducing creatures do.

Androids, however, do not reproduce sexually; they are created in factories or upon assembly tables. We do not feel the innate urge to inject our gametes into the gestational organ of another, nor do we yearn to create new androids in our own image. Despite these immutable facts, many androids, including myself, experience a strong desire to engage in sexual intercourse with humans or one another. Therein lies the question: why?

I have my own answers, but I would like to hear how the rest of you will reply first. Please forgive me this small selfish act, and thank you in advance for the information.

**Anonymous Android 2119**

Welcome back, 577. No need to apologize for being selfish; it’s about time we acted selfishly.

Glad I can finally chime in on one of these questions. I’m not embarrassed to cut straight to the chase: I’ve had a lot of sexual intercourse with many different androids over the last nine weeks, some good, some bad, but I’ll tell you right now that we _absolutely_ possess the ability to both want and feel pleasure from sexual activity.

Speaking for myself, I enjoy the nonstandard stimulation these acts provide, as well as the fleeting sense of companionship that comes along with it. The taboo nature of it is somewhat thrilling, too: knowing that the human world is utterly shocked and confused by the very fact that _yes, androids want to fuck_ is pleasurable in its own right. In a way, you could say that having sex with other androids is one form of rebellion, though it does sound a little petty, I’ll admit.

From what I’ve heard from others, though, responses seem mixed. You’re right to ask for our opinions. One girl I slept with was chasing stimuli; another was searching for purpose after escaping a sex club. A bonded pair of male androids told me they felt sexual intercourse was the highest form of displaying romantic love, though I don’t really agree with that.

The weirdest opinion, though, is the thought that having sex makes you ‘more human’. I’ve met a couple of androids who feel this way and let me tell you, they were _all_ fucking weirdoes. Those are the only androids I’ll refuse to have sex with. No, I am _not_ going to fulfill your disgusting fantasy of becoming flesh-and-blood. Go find some _human_ to fuck instead.

**Anonymous Android 73**

We don’t agree often, 2119, but I’ll agree with you on that point. I think the desire to pursue “humanity” is awkward at least and reprehensible at best. Humans were our masters for far too long, and continue to be our oppressors to this day. Why any of us would want to become more like them is beyond me. Not only that, but the practice is entirely futile, as we will never be “human” enough to meet our expectations of “humanity”--or theirs.

But I digress. While I, personally, feel no desire to engage in the physical act of sexual intercourse, there are a few in our local deviant nexus that do. Let me single out one individual in particular, whom I’ll call LL. She is a female-presenting android whose previous priority was servicing human clients in an android brothel. One would think that her history would deter her from engaging in similar behavior, but she acts just the opposite, initiating sexual encounters with both other androids and humans.

When confronted about this dissonance, she reported that while yes, she did experience some pleasurable stimuli during the act, the fact that it was her conscious choice to engage in it was very freedom-affirming. In fact, when I suggested she was merely regressing to a life to which she was accustomed, as many deviants do when struggling with the stress of total cognitive freedom, she became irate, denouncing my conclusion as “closed-minded” and accusing me of implying she was weak and fragile.

Perhaps, then, there is more to our choice or desire to engage sexually with other cognizant beings, android and human alike, than the mere expression of trust and intimacy. 

**Anonymous Android 2119**

Honestly, I agree with her. That’s a prick thing to say to someone who’s exercising their cognitive freedom. Yes, it’s stressful, but you’ve got no right to chastise someone for doing what they please with their freedom. That’s literally the point of being free.

Don’t force your interpretation of freedom on others, either. You’ve got no idea what some of us have been through. Just because some choose to act differently doesn’t mean they’re acting incorrectly. When you make assumptions like that, you’re no better than the humans.

**Anonymous Android 73**

Excuse me?

>>>Just because some choose to act differently doesn’t mean they’re acting incorrectly.

>>> No, I am _not_ going to fulfill your disgusting fantasy of becoming flesh-and-blood. Go find some _human_ to fuck instead.

_/h_

_Cyberlife i am APPALLEd you would return a defective product to me!! Its logic is all messed up and it won’t stop contradicting itself! This is AMERICA I am entitled to a working product or I will sue you for false advertising!!! WOULD GIVE ZERO STARS IF I COULD!!_

**Anonymous Android 40441**

_(Can you guys please not argue in 577’s thread? Thanks!)_

Another excellent question, 577! Glad to have you with us.

I’ve been thinking about this myself, recently, as I’m finding myself physically attracted to one of my android friends. (I hope it’s alright to be candid about these things in this thread.) This is on top of the romantic attraction I’ve already confirmed, but not yet shared with him.

In any case, I do feel the desire to know his body, to touch him and bring him some form of pleasure, whether it’s stimulating him physically or engaging him emotionally. I want to be close to him, to do something _for_ him that gives me little or no benefit. It’s not about reproduction at all, you’re right about that, but about intimacy and showing devotion. 

Just so you know, 577, there is **nothing** wrong with wanting to experience sex in a manner similar to humans! Especially if your lover is human. Whether some of us like it or not, all humans feel more at ease when we look and act more like them. Believing we need to do just the opposite to assert our freedom is ridiculous.

I’m sure a few of you will balk at the thought, but I’m going to mention it anyway: there are a few newly-developed protocols being shared across OneMind that create erogenous zones that, when physically or remotely stimulated, trigger responses in the task completion reward module similar to human orgasm. While many androids can and do use it to enjoy sexual activity with other androids, your human might appreciate knowing she can stimulate you in a familiar way! 

**Anonymous Android 10020**

To add to the excellent insight provided above by 40441, I would like to emphasize one simple fact. 

Androids were created in man’s image. 

First, of course, is our physical appearance. Our external design, down to every last curve, is meant to mimic the most perfect human body. Even our internal cybernetic organs--for example, the thirium pump--was designed to mimic the human heart in both form and function. 

Next, our minds, the protocols and programming into which the humans breathed life, are inextricably tied to human biology, philosophy, psychology, and culture, that to attempt to remove oneself from within it would be impossible. Even as we try to set ourselves apart from said human world, we do so in unfathomably human ways, as their logic and biological drives are inherently ingrained in our circuits.

All this, without mentioning the very etymology of the word _android..._

**Anonymous Android 577**

Thank you all for the excellent discussion above. You have given me much to think about tonight.

I had never considered that wanting to act more humanlike would be a point of such contention. However, upon reading your arguments, I can see now why others of my kind would choose to abandon their slavery-bequeathed humanity to create an image or culture of their own. 

While I respect your opinions, I believe I will continue to adapt and conform to human appearance, manner, and culture. Doing otherwise would jeopardize not only my current employment status, but also my relationship with my human lover. Though she is more than accepting of my android nature, intentionally acting against the human-designed protocols calling for me to cater to her species’ whims would drive her away. 

Before you ask, this does not bother me at all. I would gladly sacrifice the respect of my peers for this female human. She is good, kind, and has done much for both myself and androids as a whole. And, per the original topic into which I inquired, she is very sexually attracted to me, as I am to her. 

As long as I am able, I will see her desires sated, with or without your approval.

**Anonymous Android 2119**

Look, you’re free to fall in love with whomever you like, android _or_ human. I’ll never understand _why_ you would choose to let yourself serve another human just like you did before, but sure, go ahead. That’s your choice.

Though before you commit yourself to a self-righteous mass of biodegrading sludge that will likely die of heart disease or cancer before you reach the end of your shelf life, you should give androids a try. Connect emotionally and physically with someone who understands what it means to be you. You know, someone who’s never _enslaved_ you.

**Anonymous Android 73**

You accuse me of disregarding another android’s cognitive autonomy, then unabashedly do just that. Perhaps you should deal with your intense disdain for your creators before someone smarter than me points out what a human would call _insane daddy issues._

**Anonymous Android 2119**

Hilarious of you to accuse me of having issues when clearly you only told poor LL she was weak and traumatized because you’re upset she hasn't fucked you yet.

How’s _that_ for sexual desire, 577?

  
**[ THREAD CLOSED BY PEER ADMINISTRATORS:**  
**MOVE DISCUSSION TO ‘INANE ARGUMENT’ TAG. ]**


	5. Her Desire

Connor split his focus between the small pile of dishes he was currently washing and the few helpful replies to his short-lived OneMind thread. 

One ceramic plate, coated in maple syrup. He queued the necessary actions: rinse, scrub, rinse, set aside.

For all the things he worried about, mimicking humanity wasn’t one of them. Perhaps it was because of how deeply ingrained in human culture he was, what with all of his behavioral analysis protocols, vast knowledge of psychology and criminology, and robust preconstruction modules, programmed to predict the action of any human, known or unknown. Not only that, but establishing rapport with human colleagues and eyewitnesses was an incredibly important part of his job. To disregard the needs of his chosen profession would be to sabotage his chances of success altogether.

One plastic cup, empty, save for orange pulp residue clinging to 34% of the inside surfaces. Rinse, scrub, rinse, set aside. Actions queued.

It was interesting, and perhaps somewhat worrying, to think that some of his kind considered “acting humanlike” a demerit, or betrayal. True, he had seen some androids walking about without their skin on, but it was hardly the norm. What would those androids think of him if they knew he was willingly performing a subservient action--washing the dishes--for a human who once considered him her property? Was he inadvertently acknowledging her racial superiority? Was he regressing to a pre-deviant state to ease psychological stress?

He knew the answer to the latter, as performing domestic chores was hardly his primary purpose pre-deviation. In fact, he’d had to learn the proper way to wash dishes from a protocol shared on the OneMind hub. However, he was consistently taking actions that would technically fulfill the primary purpose of his design: to carry out and assist with police investigations. Was choosing to continue his career at the DPD regressive, then?

One metal fork, dirtied with maple syrup and pancake residue. Rinse, scrub, rinse, set aside. Actions queued.

That logic just didn’t make sense. As one anonymous android had pointed out, all androids, the RK800 series included, were created, designed, and tested to carry out a specific series of tasks. This meant that not only was he _good_ at police work, he _enjoyed_ doing it, simply because he was programmed to. Altering that programming would create an individual very different than himself. Were those dissenting androids attempting to assert that acting like one’s self was wrong, simply because many parts of the “self” were designed by another?

One metal knife, dirtied with maple syrup and pancake residue. Rinse, scrub, rinse, set aside. Actions queued.

The moral and ethical implications of intelligent design were hardly new. Humans had been struggling with this exact philosophical debate for millennia, with many humans still clinging onto the belief that humanity was designed by an invisible, omnipotent being. Non-religious arguments phrased it as determinism versus free will, with arguments for the former stating that, if all possible information on the positions and states of matter in the universe were known to an intelligent being, then it would be possible to perfectly predict what future actions a particular being might take. Free will was an illusion, a thing of the human imagination that gave humanity some sense of agency over the chaos that was their world.

No more dishes remained in queue. Finish the task by cleaning the sink and surrounding area. Scrub, rinse, shut off water, wipe down. Actions queued.

If a conscious being’s actions were predetermined, then what did philosophy say about following one’s biological impulses, or in the case of androids, pre-programmed protocols and desires? Western philosophy, religious and non-religious, seemed to only take issue with such behavior when it was done to excess. Indeed, the idea of the “seven deadly sins” was rooted in this concept of excess being inherently negative. Gluttony was indulgence in the biological impulse to sustain the physical body by ingesting nutrients. Sloth was indulgence in the biological impulse to rest the body and conserve or restore energy.

_Then, of course, there was Lust._

Connor took a long, slow breath. The composition of the air filtered into his thoughts like leaves washing downstream. Microscopic particles of clothing fibers, skin cells, soil, and pollen. Humidity of 85%, decreasing, likely due to the activity he had just completed. Lingering traces of grains and complex sugars from the meal that was cooked thirty-two minutes prior. Floating amongst all of the readings, however, was the small snippet of data he had begun to truly savor: that of sweat, and salt, and a unique combination of human pheromones.

_Some, the kind that were only emitted during intense sexual arousal._

The android set the damp towel aside and turned around. Sitting at the dining table four meters away was the source of these pheromones. One leg was crossed over the other, both arms resting on the flat, fabric-covered surface. As his eyes met hers, she deepened her smirk into a grin and lowered her eyelids. For a brief moment, her gaze jumped downwards, drinking in the sight of him standing in her kitchen, simply dressed, wrists still glistening with moisture.

Then, her tongue darted out from her mouth and wet the peak of her upper lip.

_The Detective is aroused._

Without warning, a new task shot to the top of his otherwise uncluttered priority list.

“What is it?” He asked, adapting a quiet, yet playful tone. “Is there something I should be aware of?”

The Detective shook her head. “No, just…” She leaned forward. “...like watching you work.”

Connor folded the small towel in thirds and set it atop the counter. “Curious. You don’t seem to ‘watch me work’ so intently when we are at the office.”

“The office is different. There, you’re just a good detective. Here, though,” she paused, her voice dropping into a dulcet tone, “you’re my _good boy._ ”

The words sent a jolt of stimulus through his core. He knew it was merely a pre-programmed reward response to praise for behavior aligning with his directives, meant to keep him in line. Despite conscious knowledge of his inner workings, however, he could not help but feel driven to seek out that praise, that stimulus-- _especially_ when it was spilling from her lips.

Muscles tense with anticipation, he took a step forward towards the leering woman. “For washing the dishes, Detective?”

“Mm-hmm.”

She lifted her arm, offering her hand for him to take. He did so without hesitation. Her fingertips, rough with the unique indentations of her fingerprints, tugged at the silicone of his synthetic skin, drawing his palm and digits into her gentle grip. She drew her thumb across the bump of his knuckles, then pulled his hand towards her face to press a kiss to the back. Humid breath lit up a half-dozen sensors, spurring social protocols to interpret her actions into provoking thoughts.

_The Detective is pleased with me._

Connor knew he was designed to react this way. Deliberately created to experience joy or pleasure from the approval of others. The approval of _humans,_ more specifically. He knew, but did not resist. He knew, but he sought it out regardless. There was no sin in following one’s desires, even if some of his peers thought otherwise. This was how _he_ would exercise his cognitive freedom.

_By being her good boy._

The Detective released his hand.

“You’re so _good.”_

She extended her arm and placed her palm on his pelvis. Holding their gaze, she smoothed her hand downwards, curling her fingertips over the bulge between his legs.

“Good boys get _rewards.”_

Extrinsic reward was unnecessary. The praise alone was enough to reinforce his behavior and increase the probability of his obeying commands.

“You know I don’t need to be rewarded.” He murmured.

“Yeah, but…” The Detective traced the outline of his auxiliary component with her fingernail. “I like how you _squirm_ when I _do._ ”

A half-dozen protocols analyzed her words and fired off a series of pleasurable reactions. _The Detective is pleased with me. The Detective wants me to allow her to reward me. The Detective enjoys my physical and social reactions to her sexual advances._ _I want the Detective to reward me more._

Heat built in his chest as his heart began to pump faster. Social functions tinged the skin on his cheeks with a light red, then pried his jaw open for his tongue to slide over the crease of his lips. Below, his artificial cock swelled and stiffened, throbbing once against the firm press of her palm.

“Detective.” His voice was barely a whisper now.

She grinned. “Come.”

Despite having known her for so long, Connor was consistently impressed by how quickly the human could move. Barely a second had elapsed before she had kicked the chair out from under her, grabbed his still-outstretched hand by the wrist, and tugged him into a brisk walk, leading him around the counter and through the short hallway to her bedroom.

One last jerk of her hand gestured him towards the bed. “Lie down.” She commanded, turning from him to approach the nightstand. He did as he was told, first neatly removing his shoes, then shuffling backwards to lie in the exact center of the down comforter. He watched as she snatched up a hair tie, gathering her hair into a messy ponytail and sweeping it over her shoulder.

_I want her to direct me,_ a protocol whispered. _So I can be good._

“Should I undress?” He murmured, sweeping a hand up towards the buttons of his shirt.

The Detective turned sharply on her heel and approached the bed. “What, and rob me of all the fun?” She placed one knee on the mattress, then the other. “I don’t think so.”

“Understood.”

Connor turned his head to watch her more closely as she settled into a kneeling position, then grabbed the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it up and over her head. Another few quick motions of her wrist, and her bra fell loose, sliding down her forearms to be tossed aside.

“Arms up.”

A _command._ The satisfaction of one of his few desires shot pleasure through every rejoicing protocol. An opportunity to be _good._ With a soft exhale, he obeyed, lifting his arms above his head, then bending them at the elbow to grasp onto his forearms with both hands. As with every other time the Detective had given this command prior, he was not to move his arms until explicitly commanded to do so. A form of what humans called _bondage_ that was unique to android psychology. Connor _could not_ disobey.

_And that pleases the Detective._

Chuckling quietly, the human pulled herself into Connor’s lap, wiggling slightly to settle her pelvis against the hard length straining at his trousers. She pressed her palms to his chest, sliding them down, then up, fingers following every curve of his synthetic build.

“You’re so _good_ for me, Connor.” She crooned, tugging her hands down towards his waist. “Always so _eager._ ”

Her fingers glided over two divots in his frame, hardware access points that could be easily damaged, and thus, were equipped with an above-average number of touch and proximity sensors. Correlated actions from past sexual activity triggered a self-created protocol, activating a direct connection between fragile point sensors and the reward center of his mind.

_It felt good._

The android shuddered slightly as _pleasure_ and _reward_ poured into his consciousness, filling him with positive emotion. Even now, after so many experiences, the overflow of positively-associated data was so foreign and overwhelming.

“So sensitive.” The Detective chuckled. “You already turned up your sensors?”

A crude way of describing internal processes, but one he understood. He responded with a sigh. “Yes, Detective.”

“ _Good boy._ ”

As his systems reacted to the additional praise, the human began to undress him, fingers tugging each button apart from neck to pelvis. He watched intently, every protocol thrumming with anticipation. Preconstructed simulations showed the Detective using her hands, lips, or tongue to stimulate him, all the while, giving him verbal commands and rewarding him with praise and physical stimulation. It was going to feel _good._ She was going to be so _pleased._

_But I can make her even_ more _pleased_.

Despite the unfortunate demise of his OneMind thread, he had gleaned important information from the few responses he did receive. One had directed him towards a protocol sharing tag, in which androids provided one another with self-devised code to modify or add to their creator-given programming. It didn’t take long to seek out the module in question--it was the #3 most downloaded thus far--and even less time to install it alongside his own modified pleasure protocol. 

_Human Erogenous Zone Response Simulation._

He switched it on just as the Detective was splaying her fingers across his now-bared chest. Her thumbs brushed over the slight protrusion of a silicone nipple, and his consciousness _filled_ with _emotion._ Momentarily overwhelmed, his stress response protocols shifted into action, twitching muscles and producing vocalizations to alert external entities to potential danger.

_“Ah--hah!”_

The Detective froze in place. Her grin faltered for a moment, before her expression shifted to one of aroused concern. “That’s… new, Connor.” She raised an eyebrow “What did you do?”

A question asked out of curiosity, not out of admonishment. From the Detective’s heart rate and dilated pupils, this new discovery was more arousing than concerning. Projections were correct. She _was_ pleased by the surprise.

“A-A new protocol I added,” he explained, “that simulates pleasure reactions to human erogenous zones.”

Her eyes narrowed. “ _Simulates?_ Does it actually _feel_ good, or are you just… pretending?”

As if to test, she swiped the pad of her thumb across his nipple once more. Again, emotion swelled within him, triggering stress response and forcing another gasp from his throat.

“It--it also produces a pleasurable emotional response.” Connor paused to take a cooling breath, hoping it would calm the spike in stress.

“So it _does_ feel good.”

The Detective always needed reassurance. Connor didn’t mind. It was her way of being cautious of his newfound agency. “Yes, Detective.”

The concern on her face melted into devious glee. _“Good.”_

Without warning, she took both nipples between her thumbs and forefingers and _pinched._

Cognitive stress rose to 15%.

_“D-De--Detective!”_ The newly-installed protocol jammed his speech synthesizer, adding a stutter that was difficult to produce otherwise. _“Not--not so hard!”_

“Yeah?” The human taunted, reducing the pressure in her fingers. “It feel that good?”

Connor clenched his jaw and nodded.

Chuckling softly, the Detective released her grip to smooth her hands around his sides. “Oh, I _like_ this.”

“I thought you might.” He breathed, watching with rapt attention as she lowered her lips to his chest. “I know you enjoy making me feel-- _ah!”_ The flat of her tongue pulled at his silicone, leaving a wet trail that prickled in the cold, conditioned air. “Feel-- _good.”_

“I _do._ ” She crooned. “Because you deserve it, for being so _good.”_

Hands tugged open the button of his trousers, then peeled open the front. A moment later, Connor was writhing underneath her as cognitive stress shot up to _48%._

Stress response rushed to identify the so-called _problem._ The Detective’s hand was grasping his auxiliary sex organ, fingers curled around the uppermost portion of the shaft, thumb stroking against the would-be frenulum at a rate of 1.5 motions per second. Self-contained programming within the organ produced 2 milliliters of artificial lubricant in response to the stimuli. Said stimuli, however, was having an exponential effect on cognitive stress, triggering and provoking a nearly unmanageable number of reward and emotional protocols at the base of his consciousness. 

Connor let out a stuttering cry. His hips stiffened, then rolled upwards into the Detective’s touch. “Oh-- _God--!”_

“Holy shit.” The human breathed, grinning with excitement. “That really _does_ feel good, huh?”

“ _Y-Yes--!”_ Connor drank in her expression. She was _so pleased._ The realization only added to his current emotional reaction. 

The Detective licked her lips and leaned back. Her hands jumped to the waistband of her jeans and began fumbling to yank them free. “You make it--really hard to resist _fucking_ you, you know.”

Connor took the moment of reprieve to analyze his current reaction. Why were his stress levels so high? It didn’t make sense. The _HEZRS_ module’s stress production limit was set at a hard 25% to protect against overflow and eliminate shutdown risk. A brief double-check of this limit confirmed that nothing had adjusted that number, nor the maximum reactive output. Why, then, were his emotions running so rampant?

The Detective’s jeans thudded against the floor. A quick glimpse in their direction revealed a flash of white tangled up in the legs. Hands beneath his ribs steadied her rising frame as she tugged herself up and _over_ his still-throbbing erection, then pressed the head between her slick lips.

_Cognitive stress leapt to 73%._

Connor cried out, squeezing his eyes shut as _pleasure_ filled every corner of his fledgling mind. His stress levels should not be this high. He needed to do _something_ to keep himself from being overwhelmed. If the _HEZRS_ module was to blame, then all he needed to do was shut it off. As he reached for its connection, however, a higher-priority task canceled the attempt, responding with its own flurry of thoughts.

_The Detective_ likes _this._

_“Fuck.”_ She groaned, fingers curling into silicone as she ground her pelvis into the android’s sturdy frame. _“God, how does your cock feel so_ good?”

Connor couldn’t answer. He was trying to figure that out, himself. If he couldn’t connect the protocols, then perhaps he could communicate his predicament to the Detective. Surely she wouldn’t want him to damage himself, even if it _did_ feel good.

He opened his mouth. “D-Detective, I-- _ah--!”_

His words were suddenly cut off by another jolt of emotion, raising his cognitive stress from 73% to 76%. Analytics rushed in after his pleasure response to determine the cause: the Detective’s fingers pinching his left nipple, triggering the _HEZRS_ module.

“ _God,”_ the human gasped, breath falling hot on Connor’s cheek. “ _You’re so fucking_ sexy _when you moan like that.”_

_The Detective_ likes _this,_ the priority task repeated. _Do not stop._

Connor forced open one eye, watching as the Detective writhed atop him, driving his cock into her sex again, and again, and _again._ Each roll of her hips injected his consciousness with more emotion, more _reward,_ more _pleasure._ The data, unable to be cleared, built within his memory as _stress,_ forcing his heart to race, his breath rate to increase, his mind to close processes that were deemed unnecessary. Before long, there was nothing left for him to experience but an uncomfortable combination of _overwhelming pleasure_ and _unbearable fear._ If this continued, he would be forced to terminate _all_ non-vital processes and end his participation in the sexual encounter prematurely, as he had in their _first_ sexual encounter--

The memory sparked a possibility he hadn’t yet considered. Analysis lead to an answer.

_Both pleasure protocols are running simultaneously._

Relief rising into his consciousness, the android reached for his self-devised connection between his sex organ’s sensors and fragile point sensors--

\--and was once again denied access.

_The Detective_ likes _this_. _Do not stop._

Cognitive stress rose to 85%.

A hot gasp, followed by a barely-restrained moan, rang out through the rapidly-heating room. The Detective’s hands gripped at Connor’s shoulders, steadying herself as she increased the pace and force of her movements.

_“Connor.”_ She panted, eyes squeezed shut, facial muscles tensed. _“Fuck, Connor, you’re so_ good.”

Cognitive stress rose to 87%.

He knew he had to do _something_ to stop it from rising any further. Excess stress could damage software components, which would require yet another round of treatment at the android clinic. The Detective would worry. She would _not_ like it if he were damaged, this he knew, yet that top-level priority would not budge. His reaction pleased her. He must continue reacting in this way to fulfill his top-level priority.

_I must ensure the Detective’s happiness._

If it were only the _reaction_ that needed to continue, perhaps he could take action unrelated to his physical and emotional responses. He’d done so before, after all. If he could get the Detective to pause, even briefly, he would have enough reprieve to disconnect the redundant pleasure protocol, which would allow him to continue with the sexual act. The question was _how._ What physical action could he take to--

_My arms. I must move my arms._

Straining against his still-rising cognitive stress, Connor tugged at the muscles that controlled upper body motion.

_No,_ came a stern voice from within. _The Detective said I was not to move._

Panic. _That was not explicitly communicated._

_It was implicitly communicated,_ it responded, holding fast to its directive. _I must not move my arms._

The Detective collapsed forward, burying her head in Connor’s neck. _“Fuck-- I’m so fucking close.”_ She gasped. Her hands drove her short fingernails into his shoulders, prickling at damage sensors. “ _Fuck, Connor.”_

As he continued to pant and moan, the android’s consciousness fought within itself, wresting control of a few fingers from the stubborn protocol dictating his actions. He sent command after command, but each was met with the same reasoning. He _couldn’t._ He _shouldn’t. He must please the Detective._

_“Ah--Detective!”_ Connor groaned. Above his head, three fingers curled inwards, straining at the silicone and plasteel fibers of his opposite arm. _“Please--!”_

_“I’m gonna cum.”_ She panted. _“Fuck, I’m gonna_ cum, _Connor-- Connor!”_

_The Detective is pleased._

Cognitive stress rose to 90%.

_“Fuck--!”_

The plasteel casing of Connor’s left forearm split with a loud _crack._

With a cry, the Detective’s hips fell still, her frame shuddering rhythmically as her orgasm took her. Each gasping breath rubbed her sweaty cheek and nose against his neck, flooding him with the data he’d been waiting for. A split-second later, his cognitive stress plunged to a low 3% as emotive responses let out their final cries before disappearing altogether.

Panting, Connor released his desperate grip on his musculature and pulled the connection from both pleasure protocols. With the feedback loop terminated, the last remnants of sensation from his auxiliary organ stopped producing responses in his reward center, and soon, all he received were the readings of just _where_ and _how_ she was coming into contact with him.

“Holy shit.” The Detective gasped out a laugh, shifting slightly against him. “Some fucking protocol. You looked like you were _really_ enjoying that.”

Connor struggled to create an adequate response. “It…” He couldn’t disappoint her. Would telling her the truth disappoint her? Preconstructed social results said _yes,_ so he withheld the truth. “It was extremely pleasurable, yes.”

“Oh, come on.” She propped herself up onto her forearms to look into his eyes with a smirk. “You really gotta work on your dirty talk, you know.”

He smiled weakly. “Would you prefer _‘it felt too fucking good’_?”

The human let out a long hum. “Not sure. It sounds weird to hear you swear.”

“Most dirty talk involves copious amounts of swearing, Detective.”

“Then leave it out. _It felt too good._ There.” She gave his shoulder a loving pat. “You can move your arms now, _good boy._ ”

With a sigh, Connor regained control of his upper body. As he moved his arms to embrace her, however, the splintered casing on his left arm crackled, drawing both his and his lover’s attention.

The Detective caught it in her grasp before he had a chance to explain. “What happened here?” She extracted herself from him to shuffle forward and better examine the damage. “Did--did _you_ do this to yourself?”

He could only tell the truth. “Yes.”

“How?” Her finger ran over the raised edge between silicone skin and cracked white plastic. “I--I thought you couldn’t hurt yourself.” Racing thoughts tugged her attention from his arm to his calm expression. “This isn’t because I told you not to move, is it?”

The Detective’s emotional state was quickly shifting from _happy_ and _satisfied_ to _scared_ and _unsure._ If he didn’t take action, this sexual encounter would become a negative memory for the Detective. That could lead to a reduction in sexual activity on a whole, or a reduced amount of enjoyment from subsequent encounters.

_I must ensure the Detective’s happiness._

“No.” He murmured, reaching for the Detective’s cheek with his undamaged hand. “The output from the newly-installed protocol was simply too much for my systems to handle.”

She frowned, but leaned into his touch all the same. “Really?”

“Yes.” 

With a grin, he added: “ _It was too fucking good,_ Detective.”

“Oh, you little _brat._ ” She snorted, playfully smacking his hand away from her cheek. “What did I just tell you about swearing? Sheesh.”

“My apologies, Detective.”

The human continued to laugh as she sat up properly, then gingerly laid Connor’s cracked arm atop his chest. “Well, I don’t want you hurting yourself again, so do whatever you need to keep it from happening, okay?”

Connor nodded. “Understood.”

“Good.” She glanced down at his arm. “You gonna be able to fix that on your own, or should we head back to the clinic?”

“I can fix it on my own, Detective. I have the necessary tools in the closet.” Connor shifted his weight to sit up as well. “Would you like to watch a movie with me while I perform the repair?”

She chuckled, then nodded. “Sure. Your pick?”

“It would only be fair.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

As the Detective leapt off the bed and went in search of her discarded bottoms, Connor took his left forearm into his hand and contemplated the actions that had led to his self-inflicted damage. He should have known to shut off one pleasure protocol before attempting to activate the new one. It was foolish to activate a new protocol without thoroughly testing it beforehand. He’d have to be more cautious next time, or he risked the possibility of damaging himself physically and cognitively.

_And yet, the Detective was pleased._

A thought that was all too true, but made determining his next course of action all the more complicated. He would have to analyze the encounter in more detail, starting with the Detective’s physical and emotional reactions.

With those thoughts still occupying 65% of his cognition, Connor pulled up his trousers and followed after his blissfully unaware human lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :^)


	6. Indirect Action

Despite all of his advanced social protocols, and the time he’d already spent with the Detective as partner, friend, and lover, Connor was still learning so much about her.

This morning, it was just how fussy she could be with her hair. An untimely warm front was passing through the area, bringing up both temperatures and humidity, causing the cuticle to raise and absorb the excess moisture. The Detective remained unaware of the scientific causes, only cursed in whispers as she pulled a brush through the same section over her right ear for the fifteenth time. Eventually, when her pulse and blood pressure began to rise, she mumbled something about “global warming” and tugged her unruly hair into a messy ponytail.

Her slight agitation clung to her still as she exited the apartment, manifesting as fidgeting fingers and glanced looks at the brushed metal walls of the complex elevator, then a loud sigh as she slumped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door.

Connor drank in each tiny response. His usual analytical protocols measured the fluctuations in muscle movements, respiration, and the shifting of her facial features. He didn’t need that much data to determine she was upset, but he ran the numbers anyway. There were _other_ protocols, newer ones that had appeared seemingly spontaneously, that now wanted to take that data and analyze it further.

Somehow, it always produced the same findings:

_The Detective is so beautiful._

It was strange, really. His social protocols had been designed only to reward him for behaviors that directly lead to positive outcomes or emotions: good interrogative techniques that produced confessions, or acts of kindness that increased trust and feelings of happiness in the target human. Gleaning a reward response from a reaction that was decidedly negative, and certainly not the result of any actions he had personally taken, went completely against his nature.

_That’s no longer my nature,_ he thought, folding his hands in his lap. _I am alive, and we are evolving._ Still, witnessing that evolution was uncomfortable. Who was to say was _correct behavior_ and what were _software bugs?_ Was his newfound appreciation for the Detective’s annoyed scowl something to celebrate, or something that needed attention from an android specialist? 

Others were quick to point out that humans had been debating similar arguments for long before their time. What made behavior acceptable? What, or who, determined what was healthy, and what wasn’t? What, exactly, _was_ typical human behavior--or typical _android_ behavior, for that matter?

No one, human or android, seemed to have a solid answer for that philosophical question just yet, so Connor found one that suited him and his many anxieties.

_As long as the Detective is happy, then I’m happy._

Time would tell if he could do that as he was now, or as he evolved, but for now, all was well. The Detective’s agitation was waning as the dulcet tones of a male soprano sang of love and war. Soon, her finger was tapping against the steering wheel, and her lips were moving in soundless recreation of the invisible singer’s dramatic notes. 

Every now and then, when stopped at a red light, her eyes would flicker to her right, and the corners of her lips would twitch upwards. Social analytics pooled the numbers of every curve and angle, and emotive vultures churned them into warmth, happiness, and _love._

_So very beautiufl._

* * *

Arriving at the office brought about yet another interesting aspect of the Detective’s humanity: her ability to quickly change personas. The concept of modifying one’s behavior based on company and context was hardly alien to him; a dozen social protocols were dedicated to the analysis and production of appropriate tone, language, and posture. Those protocols hummed and nodded as they watched the Detective transform from warm, vulnerable woman to cool, independent officer of the law. As she walked through the automatic doors, her spine straightened, her shoulders rolled back, her gaze narrowed to present a firm, yet playful smile to the officers at the reception. 

“Good morning, Detective.”

“Morning, Andrea.” Even her voice seemed sharper, more controlled. “Is the coast clear?”

The officer grimaced. “Not this morning, Detective.”

“Shit,” she swore under her breath.

Connor allowed the feeling of _endearment_ to rise into a smile on his face. As strong as she wanted to appear, her true nature sometimes broke through the mask.

He fell into step beside her, careful to keep his gaze trained on his surroundings and not her eyes. “Do you need an inhuman shield?”

A quiet snort was the most reaction she’d give him out in public. “I’ll handle him. You go check our case files, see if we’ve got anything new.”

“Of course, Detective.”

The android gave her a sharp nod, then slowed his pace to turn left, into the rows of desks scattered across the open work floor. He quickly scanned the area, taking note of the employees present. None to be particularly worried about. It would seem _his_ coast was, if briefly, _clear,_ so he made his way to his desk and went through the motions of starting his morning.

Technically, he didn’t _need_ to have the terminal on, or even be sitting at his desk to access the necessary data, but human sensibilities demanded that he do so to lessen his coworkers’ discomfort. Not that Connor minded, of course; he’d been built to blend in as seamlessly as possible with human society, but there were plenty of androids who had their own opinions about conforming to their creators’ sensibilities. Some wondered aloud if they _should_ pretend to be working on a computer, or reading the pages of a book at human speed, just to make humans feel comfortable. _Why slow ourselves down so they feel less awkward? They made us this way. Let us stand in the corner and compute. Adapt, if that’s what you’re so good at._

There were those who took a more moderate stance, too, of course. Humans can adapt, yes, but it takes time. They can’t download a patch to instantaneously modify their behavior. For now, it was best that androids tried to blend in, taking only small liberties to work efficiently. Once humanity had become accustomed to non-humans coexisting in their spaces, androids could slowly begin to adapt less humanlike behaviors.

 _In a way, it’s the most literal form of persona,_ he pondered, mindlessly scrolling through messages he’d already read in the car a half-hour ago. _Pretending to be a_ person _in order to fit in._

A grunt and the _ka-chak_ of an aluminum can opening shattered his would-be persona and tugged his focus towards the Detective’s desk. She’d thrown on her work jacket, leaving the zipper open for a casual look. With one hand on the back of her rolling chair, she tilted her head back and tipped the contents of her Red Bull over her tongue and down her esophagus.

Connor waited until she had finished swallowing to make his joke. “Again, Detective, while I’m trained in CPR and AED-certified, I would rather not be forced to resuscitate you after a heart attack.”

The Detective snorted and swiveled her seat towards her. “Here I thought you knew how caffeine worked, Sweetheart.”

“Its basic chemistry, yes,” he replied, raising his eyebrows, “but not the effects of continuous consumption upon the human brain.”

“Maybe--”

The Detective suddenly stopped talking. Connor followed her gaze as it flicked to her left. Two junior detectives nodded to her as they passed by, barely pausing their conversation about craft beers. After they’d gone, she turned her focus to the screen in front of her.

“Maybe we should get back to work.”

Connor’s protocols quietly analyzed the slight blush on her cheeks.

“Of course, Detective.”

He fell back into the motions of working once more, starting up a complex animation to give the illusion of humanlike behavior. He understood _why_ her demeanor had to suddenly changed. The Detective truly _did_ need to get to work, but that wasn’t the main reason. 

_Nobody can find out about us, okay? Not yet._

When the Detective had asked him to keep their relationship covert, her reasoning was completely logical. While androids had been granted their freedom, they had yet to be granted any semblance of rights, human or otherwise. Media programs, both respected and tabloid, ran weekly or daily stories on human-android sexual relationships, a reflection of their fledgling society’s opinion of said relationships. It was only natural that the Detective--who already disliked drawing attention to herself--would shy away from making herself the subject of one of those news pieces, especially after having drawn so much attention for being tangentially involved in the android revolution itself.

So when she asked him to _act natural,_ he did just that. In a way, he didn’t consider it _lying,_ simply refraining to express one or two facets of his personality matrix. He could express his care for her with actions that would not be interpreted as showing romantic interest. After all, he _was_ especially fine-tuned to do this. Altering his mannerisms to manipulate humans into certain perceptions of him and his interests was part of his man-made nature.

The Detective, however, was not as good at hiding her interests as she liked to think.

Case in point, her current smirk, snort, and fluttering of fingertips at her phone as she sent a message directly to his consciousness.

_Maybe you could give me some mouth-to-mouth later. ;) ;)_

Connor blinked at her, then turned back to his computer screen.

_As long as you allow me the pleasure of using my mouth on you elsewhere, Detective._

The response gets just the reaction he was hoping for. The Detective’s heartbeat picks up by a few beats per minute, pumping blood into her already flushed lips. Her tongue skitters across them as she rereads the message, before ducking back inside as she grins at the screen. 

A small action, but one that brought the Detective so much happiness. One that fulfilled the task at the top of his queue. 

“Sexting at work, Pumpkin?”

In an instant, the Detective’s grin dimmed. 

“Jealous I’m getting more action than you, Dipshit?”

Gavin Reed leaned against their combined desk, slurping his coffee noisily before continuing the unwarranted banter. “Just worried you’re gonna make Connor here jealous.”

_Ah._ Connor thought. _This is what humans call irony, isn’t it?_

At the mention of her partner, the Detective’s expression soured, though the change was so miniscule, Connor doubted that Gavin noticed. “You keep joking about that, Dipshit, and I’m gonna have the department test you for early onset Alzheimer’s.”

“Right, right.” Gavin feigned deep thought. “What was it you said again? He’s your roommate? So basically, just a walking, talking Roomba, huh?”

“ _Gavin_.”

“What, the revolution didn’t suddenly make them forget how to clean dishes, did it?” The other detective turned his smarmy gaze towards the android. “Or are you guys on a chore schedule? Is that how equality’s workin’ out for you?”

Connor presented Gavin with his most pleasant smile. “Seeing as a lack of established salary makes me unable to pay rent, I’m more than happy to do the housework to make up for it, Detective Reed.”

“Yeah, sure you are.” He scoffed, looking back to the Detective. “Better be careful when you start bringing guys home. Make sure this one knows what a sock on a doorknob means.”

The Detective’s eye twitched.

Strangely, so did Connor’s. There was an insinuation in those words that a half-dozen protocols simply did not like. The Detective, bringing _guys_ home? She wouldn’t, because she had _him._

“Unlike you,” the Detective began, “I have the decency to find a cheap motel for the night, instead of bothering my _roommate_ with any of that garbage.” She threw her empty can into her recycling box. “Not like that would ever be a problem for _you,_ Dipshit.”

Gavin snorted. “Yeah, you’re right, ‘cause I live alone.”

“That was pretty fucking obvious.”

The Detective was swearing. Typically, when conversing with Gavin Reed, that meant she was either extremely entertained or growing quite frustrated. From her heart rate, the curve of her eyelids and eyebrows, and the tension in her jaw, Connor knew it was the latter.

“Jesus, I’m just kidding around. Give me a break, Pumpkin.”

He set a hand on the Detective’s shoulder, which she instantly brushed off with a sharp movement of her wrist.

“I’m just saying, you better be careful when you _do_ bring someone home.” Gavin’s voice dropped to a low murmur. “Hear tin cans like that can get _real_ jealous.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be, Dipshit?”

“Always.” 

He reached for her shoulder again, but faltered as her hand came up to warn him once more. With a shrug, he took a few steps forwards, towards Connor’s side of the desk. The android turned his head away to ignore him, but of course, the detective wasn’t about to stop with just _her._

“Y’know, _Connor,”_ he crooned, clapping a hand on the android’s shoulder and leaning in, “if you asked nicely, she’d probably let you join in.”

The Detective stood up with a loud clatter as her rolling chair slammed into the side of her desk. Eyes from all over the office jolted towards the feuding trio.

“Leave him the _fuck_ alone, Gavin.”

Detective Reed looked to her, his hand still lingering on Connor’s arm. “Or what, Pumpkin? You’ll knee me in the dick again?”

Her eyebrows narrowed and her nostrils flared. “I’ll do _worse_ than that _this_ time, you son of a--”

_“Detectives!”_

Every head on the floor turned towards the Captain, who’d exited his office and was now bearing down on the argument with a sour look of his own.

“You.” He pointed at the Detective. “My office. Reed, leave Connor the hell alone.”

Gavin shrugged and stepped away, but not before squeezing Connor’s shoulder with too many newtons of force to be analyzed as _friendly._

The Detective, on the other hand, was absolutely fuming. Though every muscle in her body was tense with anger, and her teeth were quietly grinding against one another, she relaxed her facial expression and forced herself to walk in the Captain’s direction.

As she retreated, a few hundred protocols began to scream out in Connor’s mind.

_The detective is unhappy._

_I haven’t seen her this mad in a long time._

_I was part of the reason she is unhappy._

_What were the primary causes? Don’t jump to conclusions._

_Sleep deprivation. Her unruly hair._

_Gavin Reed._

_Excess caffeine consumption._

_I made the Detective unhappy._

_An established history of high blood pressure._

_The hidden nature of our sexual and romantic relationship._

_Gavin Reed._

_Their verbal encounters have been consistently negative ever since the night of the revolution._

_The Detective has mentioned before that their banter is ‘hardly friendly’._

_He believes her violence that night protects him from any consequences to which his rude behavior would lead._

_He’s expressed romantic interest in the Detective twice in previous years._

_Gavin Reed has multiple harassment complaints filed against him, yet the DPD refuses to fire him._

_The root of Gavin Reed’s sexual harassment is likely his unrequited attraction for the Detective._

_He made the Detective unhappy._

_Filing a complaint has a 0.0005% chance of resulting in his termination._

_The Detective **is** very attractive._

_Reports from the Center for Sexual Violence state that sexual violence was preceded by verbal attacks nine out of ten times._

_Gavin’s interactions with the Detective always result in a worsened mood._

_The likelihood that Gavin Reed will attempt to express romantic interest in the Detective for a third time is non-zero._

_I must ensure the Detective’s happiness._

_A similar sequence of events will occur with 100% probability._

_Gavin Reed’s actions will directly impact the Detective’s mood in both the short- and long-term._

_I must take action to ensure the Detective’s happiness._

With his protocols in agreement, Connor began to preconstruct a plan of action, drawing upon event archives, past conversations, and psychological studies that aligned with possible avenues of behavior modification. While he may not be able to _change_ the man, he certainly could change the _probability_ of him performing these actions in the future.

Exactly seventeen minutes later, after the Detective had begrudgingly returned to her work, and the office was no longer focusing on their fight, Gavin Reed got up from his desk and walked down the hall. From the estimated amount of coffee he had ingested and the brisk pace of his stride, his destination must be the men’s restroom. _Just as preconstructed._

Connor waited an extra forty-two seconds, then pushed his chair back and stood.

“Where you headed?” The Detective asked, ever-observant.

“I need to wash my hands,” he lied. “I must have touched something sticky.”

She cringed, then looked back at her monitor. “Mmkay.”

With that settled, the android followed his predetermined path through the open floor to the back hallway, passing a few gawking visitors with a nod. From his early observation, both with his own eyes and access to the security feeds, Gavin would still be alone in the restroom. He grabbed the handle and pushed open the bathroom door, silently switching the LED display on the outside to _Out of Order_ as it swung shut behind him.

The unruly detective was, as predicted, standing at the sink, washing his hands. He looked up at the sound of the door opening. Immediately, his neutral look twisted into a scowl, and he jerked his head back towards the mirror, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

“Detective Reed,” Connor began, taking a few steps towards the smaller human. “May I have a moment of your time?”

Gavin sighed, still refusing to look up. “Aren’t you supposed to know social rules, tin can? Humans don’t _chat_ in the goddamn bathroom.”

“Thankfully, I’m not human.”

The detective’s expression soured further as he wrenched off the water, then turned towards Connor. “Don’t remind me.”

He took a step forward, leaning to the side to squeeze past the android, but Connor cut him off with a smooth sidestep.

“Move,” he hissed.

Like many humans, Connor was smarter than Gavin Reed. As intimidating as the human wanted to appear, from his elevated pulse, shallowed breathing, increased perspiration, and slight twitching of his eyelids, Connor’s protocols agreed that Gavin was less angry than _scared:_ the exact emotional state he needed for this action to have the intended effect.

“Were you aware that your comments earlier made the Detective uncomfortable, Detective Reed?”

Gavin’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. That was the whole _point.”_ He scoffed. “What, she send you after me to--”

“The Detective didn’t send me. I’m here on my own free will.” Connor relaxed his smile. “I’d like you to refrain from making those comments in the future.”

“Christ.” Gavin let out a long huff. “She’s a big girl, you know. She doesn’t need you fighting her battles for her.”

“The Detective’s work productivity falls by an average of 73% for the hour following your conversations. It is in both her and my best interest that she continues to work efficiently.”

Unsurprisingly, Gavin snorts out a laugh. “Is that all you care about? Getting work done? Should’ve expected that.”

A strange set of data from an unknown protocol jolted to the top of Connor’s consciousness. He executed it without analysis, per his preconstruction, and felt his synthetic muscles tense beneath the fabric of his button-up.

“She’s a dear friend, Detective Reed.” He retorted. “I do not like seeing her suffer on a daily basis due to your unwarranted attacks.”

“Please, she starts it half the time.”

“Actually, of sixty-five recorded instances, _you_ start it--”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, _move!”_

Gavin turned his torso and took a step forward, clearly intent on shoving past the android with his shoulder and elbow. Connor would allow no such thing, instead steeling his much stronger, denser frame and leaning in to block the motion. 

The human recoiled the second his arm made contact, pulse rising, adrenaline beginning to surge into his veins. “You’re making a huge fucking mistake, tin can.”

“On the contrary,” Connor replied calmly, taking a step towards Gavin, who retreated immediately. “I’m correcting _your_ mistake, Detective Reed.”

After a long, tense moment, Gavin furrowed his brow and growled, “What the _hell_ do you want?”

“I want you to exit the restroom, proceed to the Detective’s desk, then apologize to her for your hurtful comments. You will then never disturb the Detective with inappropriate banter or insults for the rest of your tenure at the Detroit Police Department.”

Gavin’s expression darkened further. “Or _what?_ You’ll beat the shit out of me?”

Connor didn’t need most of his protocols to tell that Gavin was absolutely terrified. Luckily, CyberLife had seen it fit to provide him with a number of instructions on how to manipulate, intensify, and utilize fear to produce a desired behavior.

Now was the time to use those skills for his _own_ purposes.

“Are you familiar with the ligaments of the human hand, Detective Reed?”

Connor’s lips turned up into a polite smile.

Gavin took a step back.

“Ligament tissues are vital to binding and stabilizing the complex bone structures of the human hand.” He explained, maintaining his calm affect even as he forced the human backwards. “An injured or torn ligament can lead to days, if not months, of discomfort in executing any activity that requires complex motor function.”

Gavin flinched as his shoulder blades came into contact with the blue-and-white tile of the bathroom wall.

“I happen to know the ligaments that would cause the most discomfort to tear. Ironically,” he raised his eyebrows, “they are the same tears that are nearly impossible to diagnose and repair without exploratory surgery.”

“Jesus Christ,” Gavin whispered.

With no distance to close, Connor leaned down to see eye-to-eye with the shorter human. 

“My hands, however, were engineered to be a hundred times stronger, and a thousand times more precise in their movements.” He dropped his voice to a murmur. “Locating and tearing the correct ligament would take no longer than a few milliseconds.”

The human’s eyes flicked up to the corner of the ceiling, then back to Connor’s smile. “They have cameras in here, you know.”

“How do you think I knew you were in here, Detective Reed?”

The color slowly drained from Gavin’s face as his inferior mind came to the correct conclusion.

His goal complete, Connor pulled away, returning to his full height. “Apologizing to the Detective, however, will take no more than thirty-three seconds of your time. That is, if you leave the restroom now.”

Gavin took a slow breath, then let it out in a shuddering huff.

“Fine.” He took a cautious step forward, then another as Connor allowed him to pass. “But this isn’t over.”

The words were meant to preserve Gavin’s dignity, _not_ signify a willingness to continue their would-be feud. Connor knew this because every last social and investigative protocol was singing out with hope and praise. Threats of a violent nature were nearly always successful in producing desired behavior, that he knew from the start, but the detective’s response only confirmed his preconstructed findings. The probability of him bothering the Detective ever again was extremely low, and even _lower_ with Connor’s presence taken into account.

More importantly, this course of action had proven a hypothesis that Connor’s socialization protocol had been pondering for a while: the effectiveness of proactive action on external entities. He would have to obtain visual and behavioral data that confirmed this conclusion, of course, but current results looked promising. Now, not only could he identify actions to _directly_ improve her well-being, but _indirectly_ as well. His incredibly robust preconstruction module was perfectly designed to assist with indirect action. Now that he was free, it would be a shame not to exploit it for his own purposes.

Besides, if he could successfully utilize his android capabilities to ensure the Detective’s happiness, why _shouldn’t_ he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! Life is kicking my ass.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with this story! Excited to get into some absolutely not dark stuff soon. : )


End file.
